He was there, holding out his hand; motionless as though he had been waiting so all the shining night. She took it mechanically.
“Who is it?” she said.
“Who else could it be?”
But at first she had thought it was Martin, somehow warned by Bunny. They stood aghast of one another, in silence, awkwardly holding hands. It was not like a meeting, it was like a good-bye.
The declining moonlight limned her cloudily. But this was no silly dream. He saw her revealed in all her wistful beauty, meant from the beginning for him.
“George, we must get Martin out of the house——”
Martin again. Evidently, he thought, the gods intend to wring the last drop of comedy out of me.
“Damn Martin,” he said softly. “Joyce, I didn’t find you at last to talk about him. Dear, I told you we’d know it if the time came.”
Was this what Bunny meant by giving? I have nothing to give. The Me he loves has gone somewhere. How can I tell him? Instead of the imagined joy and communion there’s only horror. And I want so to love him.